


Clock Stopper

by guybriefly



Category: Crash Bandicoot (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, Falling In Love, Fear, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Past Abuse, Self-Medication, Time bomb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-07 21:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11632110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guybriefly/pseuds/guybriefly
Summary: Dr N. Gin has been worse for wear since he failed Cortex. Since nobody else is going to, Dr N. Tropy checks up on him, and isn't sure whether or not to be surprised by what he finds. He's concerned. That's a start.





	Clock Stopper

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I saw that this ship has a little support behind it, but I thought it was really nice. I hope the characterisation is ok! This'll probably be a oneshot, but if i have the time, I might write more for this ship! owo  
> (Also, obligatory plug, I take writing (and art) commissions. Call me.)  
> Please enjoy!

‘When I told you to medicate yourself, I didn’t mean like _that.’_

Swiftly, Dr Tropy takes the glass away and for a moment he holds it. The ice melted a while ago, he’s been drinking it neat, it’s warm from his hand. Dr Gin makes a feeble noise as one gloved hand pats around, as _if_ Nef would leave the glass within arm’s reach, he’s too smart for that. The moment passes and Tropy moves the bottle out of his reach, too.

He knows the alcohol aggravates his condition but Gin doesn’t _care,_ there’s always a haze, if only for minutes at a time, where he feels nothing, where he’s at peace, where there’s nothing in his head, no overlapping thoughts like arguing voices or pain or anger or doubt, only a warm, damp fuzz, like cotton wool. It always passes and it’s always worse but the _moment_ is enough.

‘You have medicine.’ Tropy moves around the table, sets the bottle on the mantelpiece, jabs a few empty takeout boxes with his tuning fork like a litter-picker. The apartment reeks of old food. Normally Gin takes care of himself so _well,_ but when he falls into a slump, he falls badly. Tropy sighs, hissing. ‘You can’t take it now. No, you’ll be sick.’

Gin makes a sound as if he’s going to _be_ sick, a nasal drowned-dog whining as he manages to muster the strength to raise his head. God, it’s so _heavy._ He can feel it pulse. His scar itches. His head falls back to the table again and he covers his eyes with his hands. They ball into fists without him noticing and he realises he’s grinding his teeth.

‘Good god, man, if you’d told me how bad you were, I’d have come sooner. This place is a dump.’

‘It’s not so bad,’ Gin manages to whine, propping up his head, ‘It came with this couch. See this couch?’ He pats the couch and sits back, bulbous eye squinting in the light. ‘You can’t turn down an apartment with a free couch, you can’t, you _can’t, you can’t-!’_

He becomes almost feverish by the last one, hands shaking, shoulders quivering, teeth gritted and grinding as he twists in his seat, before lurching forwards, sick. Tropy draws back in revulsion before Gin sits back down without expelling the contents of his stomach – largely bile, he hasn’t eaten, he hasn’t thought to, or he doesn’t want to, he’s not sure – across the already-filthy carpet and battered coffee table.

‘I will never understand why you live here.’

The haughtiness in Dr Tropy’s voice almost makes Gin’s head pulsate in bewilderment.

‘What- what do you mean?’ He tents his fingers anxiously, brow furrowed in confusion, then his head jerks as he places his hands out palm-up, ready to explain. His mouth twists into a grotesque… _shape._ ‘Ha, ha, Dr. N Tropy, you don’t understand.’ He inhales reedily, snorting. ‘I don’t _need_ a big house! You think I need a big house with a front lawn and a couch that doesn’t have holes, big holes all over it, I don’t! I _don’t!’_

He’s shouting now and the pressure goes straight to his head, his thumping head, and his eye visibly twitches, he shivers.

‘You don’t need a big house, no, but you could afford something better than this.’ Tropy moves about the room. It’s grimy. The stain halfway up the wall, the spray of dark red on the beige rug, it’s a package deal. ‘Somewhere roomy, with doorways your head can fit through, closer to people you know. You’re in the middle of nowhere, Dr _Gin,_ I’m fairly certain that this neighbourhood is uncharted territory, not on any map known to man.’

His sneer fades when he sees Gin’s trembling, bulging eyes avert their gaze. Mouth open, N. Gin’s jaw moves but he doesn’t say anything. A bead of sweat forms on his temple and trickles down his grey brow to his chin. Tropy’s mouth falls open slowly as he realises.

‘You’ve isolated yourself on purpose.’

Tropy’s breath hitches and he makes a rattling noise, sucking in air, preparing an excuse. He needs space for his recovery. For his condition. In case he goes sky-high. He needs time alone. He likes it here. He has family in the area. No, Tropy’s too smart for that. He sees a blur of blue and green as Tropy dips close, kneels before him, thick eyebrows arching in inquisition.

His lips fall apart as he asks only, ‘Why?’

Gin laughs wanly, nasally. ‘Oh, you know, I… need… time apart, to…’

Trailing off, he trembles, offering a few more weak chuckles before falling silent.

‘… Are you running from something, Gin? Is that what it is?’

Although he doesn’t answer, or visibly react to the suggestion, Gin feels one of Tropy’s gloved hands move onto his, the feeling of leather brushing his closed fist.

‘I’m patient, Dr Gin, I have all the time in the world.’

Sharply, with a grunt, Dr N. Gin snatches his hand away, recoiling onto the couch, mouth curling into a snarl. The warhead bobs and he feels a sharp, pervading ache that makes him wince. One of his hands brushes away a few strands of greasy hair and he hisses.

‘It’s nothing. It’s nobody,’ he says, under his breath. ‘I’m not hiding from anybody.’

‘So it’s somebody, then.’

‘No!’ Gin snaps, ‘I just _said, idiot,_ I’m not _hiding_ from anybody! I’m not _scared_ of anyone!’ He makes air quotes around the word _scared,_ as if it’s such a foreign and fake concept, and he scoffs, but his voice cracks, and another bead of sweat visibly drips down his jaw. ‘Why would I be _scared,_ even of a person who could find and hurt me like in all of the… dreams…’

His voice trails off, even to him it sounds ridiculous. Tropy watches him for a moment, watches him settle back down into a sitting position, uncurling from the defensive, jaw moving as if on a piston, grinding slowly, tense.

‘Is that what this is about?’

After a pause, Dr Tropy breathes deeply through his mouth, choosing words, and says:

‘He’s not coming back to get you.’

Dr Gin’s face flickers for a moment, wary, like an animal watching for danger. Tropy’s heavy chest shifts, a draught gently chills his skin and ruffles his dark hair. The hat wouldn’t fit through the door.

‘He hurt you, I’m certain, but he’s moved on. I know it may be difficult, Gin, but you have to understand, he has more important things to do than hunt you down for…’ It pains him to say, but he has to finish, ‘Failing him.’

Anxiety and confusion flash across Gin’s features as he finally chooses to fix his eyes on Tropy. He’s kneeling, brow furrowed, an overwhelming look of concern on his face but otherwise a gentle, otherworldly calm, as if time is standing still, as if he’s being _very_ careful.

“He’ll be out there chasing bandicoots forever. He won’t come back to hurt you, or punish you, I promise you. He’s not that cunning. Trust me.’ The sneer in his voice does nothing to cheer Gin up. ‘You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, Dr Gin, it wasn’t your fault. But no matter how angry Cortex is, I absolutely _promise_ you, he will not lay a finger on you. You could move into the house _right next door_ and he wouldn’t so much as knock over your mailbox.’

For a while, both men are silent. For a while, Dr N. Tropy worries that he was wrong, that this wasn’t the source of Gin’s anxieties. But why else would he move into somewhere so isolated? For a while, Dr N. Gin does nothing but tremble, the fins of the missile bobbing like a buoy, cutting through the musty, dusty air and scent of disarray, a cluttered home for a cluttered mind.

‘He always reminded me so much of my father.’

That’s all he can manage before he finally collapses, and he falls forwards, and Tropy catches him, and he holds him, and he holds him, and he holds him. The short, stout doctor is just so _small,_ Tropy holds him to his hard chest almost like a stuffed animal, and he feels the cold metal press against his cheek, he feels Gin’s body shake as if he’s about to release the pressure and explode, and if it took him out, he has to admit, he wouldn’t really mind.

Anguished wails fill the room, desperate and heartbreaking, with each heave of the chest and shudder of the shoulders, with each hot teardrop welling from his left eye – the right eye doesn’t produce tears anymore, not for a long time. It takes an hour for all of the energy to be spent and for that hour he sobs and screams and cries out and thumps his fists against Tropy’s back but Tropy holds him, and holds him, and holds him, until finally he falls limp, quaking, hoarse, weak.

‘I’m so scared,’ he manages to whimper, pathetic, ‘I’m so scared. I’m so scared…’

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, dear,’ Tropy says, rubbing a slow circle on his back, ‘I’m here. Take your time.’

After he composes himself, the two men manage, somehow, to separate themselves. It feels like cutting off a limb, as if a membrane had grown between them, as if they’d become attached. Gin turns pink around the ears, hopelessly silly, and Tropy’s face flushes a little, too, when he realises how hard it is to sacrifice the pressure and warmth and _fullness_ in his arms, as if it’s taking forever, as if every millimetre they part takes years to peel away.

‘You’re still a little drunk,’ he finally says, ‘You should sober up.’

‘I’m not that drunk,’ Gin complains in that wheedling voice, before trailing off slightly. ‘Maybe. But… Dr Tropy…’

‘You can… call me Nefarious.’ He splutters slightly, involuntarily, unused to the informality. ‘If you like.’

For a moment, a smile dances on Gin’s face, then there’s a long silence, which could’ve been a short silence, which could’ve been seconds or years and neither man, the physicist or the time master, could honestly tell you the truth. Tropy’s the one who breaks it, regardless.

‘Would you…’ And he can’t believe the venture, but he continues, ‘Like to move in to my house, to live with me?’

Although he apparently tries to hide it, Gin’s face lights up. ‘Really? But it wouldn’t be a burden?’ Stammering, he compulsively finds himself adding, ‘And you wouldn’t mind seeing this around the house…?’ He gestures roughly to his face, features flickering with self-doubt.

Nefarious makes an attempt to warmly smile, and only looks mildly uncomfortable when doing so, which should be considered a rousing success.

‘Of course not, Dr Gin, it would be a pleasure.’ He feels his heart, a usual steady tick, throb faster for a brief second, and he feels a warmth behind his eyes that he tries to supress. ‘And consider this; if you’re with me, I can readily defend you against… anybody who may want to harm you, if there were someone like that who existed. A better solution than isolating yourself in the middle of nowhere, don’t you think?’

A high-pitched whine begins to sound from behind Gin’s teeth and by the looks of his wet, quivering eyes it’s the sound of him trying not to burst into tears again. It’s _too_ good, so Tropy has to add:

‘And I can make sure you _properly medicate yourself,_ you fool.’ He thinks about tapping Gin playfully on the forehead, but when he raises his hand slightly Gin flinches, minutely but visibly, and he lowers it again. ‘I’ll have you know I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, Gin. I’ll be back by tomorrow, so be ready for your departure by then, and be punctual.’

His eyes catch Gin’s face, although he’s haughtily pretending to stare at the old clock on the wall. It’s stopped at roughly thirty-something minutes past four. He tries to imagine what was happening when it stopped, but Gin’s face is alight with… something, fondness, relief, but the tell-tale absence and glow of drunkenness, so he feels compelled to affirm something, just so his mind will rest easy.

‘You’ll.. be alright for tonight, won’t you?’ His voice is low and adrip with concern. ‘You won’t drink any more?’

Gin takes his hand, awkwardly, tenderly, twitchy. ‘No, no, I promise, I promise. Pinky-promise, no more drinking.’

Something about the shaking hand cupping his compels Tropy to move his hand to Gin’s smooth metal cheek, and without thinking, without even realising, as if it were a practiced movement, he leans down and plants his lips to Gin’s forehead, a neopolitan zone of metal, scar tissue and flesh, the fork of his beard tickling the skin it touches, and when he finally realises he did it he backs away abruptly, almost standing to attention, poker-straight and flustered as Gin slowly raises a hand to his own face, seemingly in equal shock.

‘I’ll… come to pick you up tomorrow.’

‘Y- yes, master…’

‘Nefarious. Or, Nef. Please.’ Gulping, feeling a lump in his throat, chest full of warmth and a static-like tingling sensation, he makes a few robotic steps to the door, as if he’s forgotten how to walk. ‘Be ready by, at least, um, half four, sharp.’

‘I will, Nef- Nefarious, I promise…’

And Tropy leaves the apartment.

He almost falls down the stairs and he collapses once he’s in his car. A minute passes as he just sits there, breathing, head thumping, not too warm but too _fuzzy,_ it’s unreal, it’s so strange, he sinks down in his seat and then jumps as he sees Gin in the window, a silhouette, illuminated by the dim light of his dingy soon-not-to-be apartment, missile protruding, glinting in the pale glow. The silhouette, a fond shape, raises a hand and waves, slowly, unsurely, and awkwardly, Tropy waves back.

Something in his chest flutters.

Somehow, by some miracle of willpower, he pulls together the courage, the sheer physical strength to lower his hand, ignite the engine, peel his gaze away from the window and drive away, the long journey home.

He has all the time in the world.

And he’ll use it to think of him.


End file.
